Gotham's Finest
by Mighty Amphitrite
Summary: A cynical old man gains new perspective on Gotham's Finest after a run-in with the Caped Crusader. One Shot.


"Hey yo, Mr. Moore!"

"Hey _what?_"

Ernest frowned down at his neighbor. Young people today had no manners. At least the boy had enough sense to rethink his greeting.

"Sorry, sir. But did you hear the news? This bank a couple blocks from the school's gettin' robbed, hostages and everything, so they sent us all home! Like a snow day or somethin'!"

Ernest's scowl deepened, and he continued his walk to the drugstore, his bum knee protesting with every step. "A snow day. Hah! They should be keepin' you kids in school so you don't _all_ grow up to be bank robbers! I bet it'll take 'em all day to sort out that mess." He shook his head. "Gotham's finest. And you stay outta trouble, you hear me? Don't go 'round botherin' people, you boys find a kickball or somethin' and go play."

"Yessir. See you around!" He grinned and darted down the street toward a group of kids who were probably also discussing their day off. Ernest shook his head again and continued on his way. His arthritis medication wasn't going to pick up itself.

* * *

***~~~B~~~***

"What a way to end the day." Ernest clutched his coat closer to his chest as he trudged around the corner to the back of his building. It was the third time this month that his garbage cans had disappeared, dragged off by kids or hungry dogs or who knew what else. He should have taken his nephew's advice and tied them down, but there he was again, rooting around in the dark for those ridiculous cans.

"You should tell somebody, Uncle Ernest, they're messing with personal property! And you can't be the only one with missing trash cans," Robert said, eyes troubled. "If you'd just _tell _somebody-"

"What, like I did when they stole the mailbox? No one cares about an old man's complaints."

"At least let me buy you some new cans, you shouldn't be out looking for them all the time, it's not-"

But he had adamantly refused his nephew's offer, thus finding himself shuffling down the dark alley toward the back of his building, where he'd found the cans last time. Cursing himself for falling asleep on the couch after dinner, Ernest squinted into the darkness, searching for the familiar glint of dull metal.

As he rounded the final corner, in hopes of seeing the cans near his landlord's back porch, he realized that he was not alone.

He found himself in the presence of several tall youths in those sports jerseys young people seemed to wear all the time, but these young men didn't look like they were in the mood to cheer on a team. Ernest quickly took a step back, but it was too late: their heads had turned in his direction.

"Why you out so late, old man?" said the punk to his left. Ernest shook his head, taking another step back.

"Nothing, nothing, just out walking." The young man shifted, about to speak again, when a scruffy teenager came out of the next alley over and headed toward the group. The first punk said something angry, the kid mumbled a nervous response, but Ernest wasn't listening anymore. He searched frantically for a way out, a way back to his quiet living room, but found himself backed against a pile of trash. Harsh words became shouts; guns glinted in the young punks' hands.

As Ernest turned to run, his foot caught on some stray garbage that sent him sprawling, his glasses skidding across the filthy ground.

As he lay there waiting to be trampled, bits of sound filtered through his terror. Heavy footfalls. Grunts of pain. Angry voices. And as suddenly as it had begun, the sounds changed. A gust of wind, confused shouts, the twang of rope, terrified screams, hurried steps, fists hitting flesh, shots fired, bones breaking. Then all was still.

Ernest didn't move. He wasn't sure he could: his entire left side had gone numb against the cold pavement.

As his mind raced to catch up and urge his legs to work, he heard footsteps coming his way. Panic seized him, but before he could do more than shield his face with his free arm, a gruff voice came out of the darkness.

"Need a hand?"

Ernest froze, opened his eyes, and stared at the gloved hand that hovered near his face. He extended his own shaking hand, and the stranger pulled him carefully to his feet. As he struggled to regain his balance, Ernest felt a steadying hand on his shoulder. Something gleamed in the stranger's other hand. Ernest flinched, then realized the man had found his glasses.

With a nervous murmur of thanks, Ernest accepted the proffered glasses and put them back on, catching a glimpse of dark armor, the flash of bright eyes beneath a mask, before the stranger backed away and disappeared into the shadows.

Ernest stood shivering in the dark a moment longer, eyes searching for any sign of movement, before trudging back down the alley, headed for home.

It was a tough neighborhood in a tougher town, but he knew he'd get along okay, when Gotham's Finest had his back.

***~~~B~~~***

* * *

Just an idea I had, of how random Gothamites perceive a Batman encounter.

Even though I don't own Batman, he'll always be my hero : ) Thanks for reading!


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